you talking about, Clef??> she asked.
said Clef.
said Valeria.
A cold horror was seeping through Sancia’s belly. she whispered.
“Something’s gone wrong,” said Gregor quietly, watching Sancia’s face.
asked Clef.
Berenice looked at Valeria.
But now Valeria would not answer.
* * *
—
The crowd of Morsinis roared their approval at the sight of the golden Papa Monsoon, the King of All Storms, the Lord of Floods, and Emperor of the Surging Seas. The man in the costume had to be Rodrigo Morsini himself, Participazio thought: not only was he unable to imagine who else would be the focus of such a procession, but he’d heard rumors that Rodrigo was an enormous man, both tall and broad, and the golden Papa Monsoon seemed so large that he threatened to crush the throne beneath him.
“Well,” said the man in black, stepping away. “This is my moment. I suppose I should get a move on.”
“W-What?” said Participazio. “What do you mean, sir?”
“I mean,” said the man in black over the roar of the crowd, “that I have business to attend to with Master Morsini.”
“You want to approach Rodrigo Morsini?” said Participazio, horrified. “Now?”
He shrugged. “I see no better time.” He began to amble toward the rolling throne, but then he paused, turned, and said, “Oh, I should remind you all…Please don’t forget your masks. That would be disastrous.” He tapped the side of his head. “As I remove mine, you should put on yours.” Then he turned and continued toward the center of the hall.
The golden Papa Monsoon waved joyfully as his retinue hauled him around the floor. They turned down one stretch, the crowd cheering them on…
All except one small figure in black, who walked out to stand in the center of their path, blocking the way.
The wheels of the Morsini throne squeaked to a halt.
Participazio watched, overcome with helplessness. Oh, please, he thought. Please don’t get us all killed…
The crowd stared. The Cup-Bearers of Storms paused, unsure whether they should shove this man aside.
The golden Papa Monsoon leaned forward and peered down at the black one, who looked back with his empty, dark eyes.
“What the devil are you doing?” demanded the golden Papa Monsoon. “Someone get this idiot out of the way!”
And yet for some reason neither his Cup-Bearers of Storms nor any of the people in the crowd seemed to have any desire to approach this man.
“Do you know me, Rodrigo Morsini?” said the man in black, his deep voice hard and clear.
“I certainly do not!” said the golden Papa Monsoon. He looked at the crowd around him, gesturing to the guards. “Someone do something! Knock him down, haul him away!”
“No,” said the man in black, quieter. “You know me. You all do.”
He lifted his hands, and removed his hat. And then he began to remove his mask.
To Participazio’s surprise, there was no face beneath the mask of the man in black: rather, his head was draped in a long black cloth, tied by a black string running around his neck.
The man plucked at the string with his thumb and forefinger, and gently began to pull it away.
And then, though he couldn’t understand why, Participazio suddenly felt himself filled with terror—and he realized the purpose of their white masks.
The man in black was going to show his face. And Participazio and the Dandolo scrivers were not meant to see.
Participazio gestured to the rest of the deputation, and they hurried to stuff on their masks. He gasped as its leather interior swallowed his eyes and his ears, and he just barely heard the man in black speak once more.
“I am